


And Paradise Found

by pseudohymns (Snowpuffson)



Series: But Not Forsaken [2]
Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Prostitution, Yikes, post "the incident", pre-benriya, we all know which one i'm talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 19:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17752034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowpuffson/pseuds/pseudohymns
Summary: Pre-benriya trying to figure out how to survive in Ergastulum during the emotional aftermath.It’s his first time doing anything like this. Wallace tries to remember what confidence looked like, what reckless abandon felt like. He wonders if he’s ever felt those things in his entire life. That’s what clients want, right? Someone who knows exactly what they’re doing? But the only intimacy in Wallace’s life were the moments he spent with Nic in the library, in his room watching Nicolas scribble the alphabet like a toddler.





	And Paradise Found

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy.

Wallace is only 13 years old when he turns his first trick. It didn’t take a lot of convincing, Big Mama was more than pleased to accept him into the brothel when he came knocking, desperate and looking for work. After a few moments hashing out details, they shake hands. The older woman pulls him into an embrace and together they walk down a dimly lit narrowed hallway.

 

“We make dreams come true, _Worick_ ,” her voice feels like a splash of freezing cold water. Reality sets in the moment she ushers him into bedroom suite 104. A tacky looking room with cheap furniture made to look expensive and a bed draped in red silk sheets.

 

It’s his first time doing anything like this. Wallace tries to remember what confidence looked like, what reckless abandon felt like. He wonders if he’s ever felt those things in his entire life. That’s what clients want, right? Someone who knows exactly what they’re doing? But the only intimacy in Wallace’s life were the moments he spent with Nic in the library, in his room watching Nicolas scribble the alphabet like a toddler.

 

He reaches up to his eye-patch subconsciously, a nervous ritual he's developed over the last couple of months.

 

Maybe he’s thinking about this from the wrong angle.

 

He _is_ cute, after all. He’s cute and charming, and most of all he’s fresh. Young enough to make the underbelly of society swoon, jump at the chance to corrupt a sweet and innocent boy with milky skin who’s eager to please.

 

But despite his best efforts, he’s nervous. He’s so fucking nervous and he’s so wound up that even his teeth feel on edge.  

 

They say the first time is the hardest, but that can’t be true, because the second and third and even the fourth time is just as hard.

 

It becomes a little easier when they’re no longer sleeping in abandoned churches and behind dumpsters. And a _lot_ easier, when there’s food in their bellies and they can afford basic comforts he had always taken for granted like clean water and toilet paper.

 

 _This is just means to an end,_ he tells himself. He wonders what his father would think of him being on his knees or between a stranger’s legs. And when he feels the cold touch of grown hands on him as they peel off his clothes slowly, he tries not to think anymore.

 

Wallace learns quickly. He studies his clients the way he read his books—the ones that are looking to feel young again, the ones that want to feel powerful, and the ones that want romance. He learns how to play to his strengths and conceal his nervousness.

 

The women are sometimes helpful, they teach Wallace how to be soft, attentive, and that means more money and deeper lined pockets. He prefers female clients because they often smell like peonies or sandalwood, and sure, now those fragrances make his stomach do backflips, but at least he can lean in and smell the roses, so to speak.  

 

But the men? They don’t want to teach. They usually want something _very_ different, and Wallace learned that the hard way. The painful way.

 

One night, Wallace returns to the seedy motel room they’re renting, the one with flickering lights and strange stains on the walls. He’s limping slightly and sporting new bruises around his wrist and neck like dots on a treasure map, probably other places too, but he covers them up with his shirt and hopes they’ll be gone by morning.

 

Nic, as always, is awake and vigilant. He’s sitting by the window with one hand clutching his blade and the other holding tightly to a small green book with burnt edges. And even though Wallace knew to expect that the Twilight would be awake, he was really, _really_ hoping he could sneak in undetected.

 

 _I told you not to wait up,_ Wallace signs with an anxious smile. He looks like a kid caught after curfew.

 

13-year-old Nic is still just a runt, small and fragile-looking as ever, but his eyes are still too intense and dangerous for someone so young. They lock onto Wallace’s fake smile and the bruises peeking from his white collared shirt, the wad of cash bundled carefully in his pocket.

 

Wallace shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, partially because his entire body aches, partially because he feels Nic’s hyper-focused gaze on him and knows he can’t hide this forever.

 

_Where were you?_

And there it is. The question he was hoping he wouldn’t get asked. 

_I went out for a bit,_ he replies after shaking a cigarette loose from his pack and lighting it. He hesitates before putting it to his mouth.

 

He knows that answer won’t be enough to satiate Nic, but rule number one about living on the streets? Never offer more information than you’re asked, and sometimes not even that. Nic stares at Wallace with one of his “give-me-a-fucking-break” glares and waits for the real answer.

 

Wallace takes a long drag and feels the weight of his sins escape his lips on the exhale. _Fine_ , he thinks. _Fuck it._

 

*

 

He already isn’t feeling well, but this is the cherry on top of the shitty sundae.

 

_I don’t like it._

Nic only had knowledge of prostitutes because of his father—the stories he would swap with other mercenaries during meal times. Nic was only able to steal glances their way, but he remembers seeing lips forming the word _ore (?)_ a few times. When he couldn’t find it in the sign language manual, he asked Wallace for the definition, curious and innocent as ever.   

 

He still remembers Wallace’s eyes wide with surprise, the slight blush that bloomed across his cheeks.

 

But that was back when they were living in the Arcangelo estate, when they had things like libraries and beds and time to waste. Well…when his master had those things, at any rate.

 

“Okay but we need the money and this is quick and easy,” Wallace says with exhaustion.

 

The Twilight raises his eyebrow upon the word “easy”, his eyes flicker to the dark bruises forming at Wallace’s neck. He tries not to imagine how it happened, the images only make him feel more upset.

 

Unconvinced and completely in disagreement, he shakes his head with a resounding “no”.

 

“What? This?” Wallace asks, looking down at the bruises on his arms, knowing there are more he can’t see. “This is—this is nothing.” He shrugs, looks calm and stoic.

 

_Don’t be stupid. I can’t protect you like this._

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse than being slapped around a little.”

 

Suddenly, he’s not only sick but he’s dizzy, too. It feels like he was hit in the face with months of unresolved tension. Somewhere between the lines, he knows exactly what Wallace means. Nic knows that he can’t take back what he’s done, he won’t be forgiven, and maybe he knows that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness anyway.

 

An eye, a family, a life…he can’t give those things back.

 

But why the does it have to come down to this? To passive aggressive comments about things he can’t change and wouldn’t change even if he could? Given the opportunity, he would do it all again. Because they _agreed_ on it, hadn’t they?

 

_I did it so you wouldn’t get hurt anymore._

 

And for Wallace to come back telling Nic that the job he found involves him being alone and vulnerable, possibly beaten on, in a place Twilights aren’t even allowed to step? Strangers grabbing him and touching him however they wanted? For Wallace to wear a shit-eating grin as he conceals dark purple marks and limps his sad, pathetic way to bed? That was an insult to everything they had just gone through.

 

An even greater insult when he asks Nic to call him Worick, which he sure as _shit_ isn’t ever going to do.

 

But the look on the blonde’s face is making Nic’s heart start to pound a little faster, harder. He sees Wallace’s eyes harden and pained with questionable emotions—ones that he can’t place—and all of a sudden, Nic wonders if maybe there are sins too great to be justified with orders. He wonders if actually there was a part of his intentions which weren’t pure, that weren’t so innocent.  

 

An eye for an eye. A father for father?

 

Nic feels sick. Sick with guilt and anger and withdrawal from Celebrer. He wobbles his way toward the bed, now disgusted to know by which means it was acquired, and sinks down. His katana feels heavy in his hand and it drops to the ground unceremoniously. Nic sees Wallace running toward him out of the corner of his eye, his mouth is moving but his vision is blurry and he can hardly make out the words.

 

“…olas?”

 

The room is spinning.

 

 “Hey! _HEY!_ ”

 

And the world goes black.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Please let me know what you think! :)


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